Saturday, 29th April.
Do the simple things
The Ispurs are the Tottenham Hotspur Mailing List soccer team. I found the
ground (again, more by good luck than good map reading) and introduced myself
to the person that looked the most like a Damy.
Damy is the manager/co-ordinator/something for the Ispurs. The team plays
against other teams representing other clubs' mailing lists. Today we were
playing against the London-based Carlisle listees.
"Some of the lads are already out there warming up," said Damy, "just look
for the fat goalkeeper." Easy to find, as it turned out, even for a
directionally-challenged individual like me.
The lads were like any amateur team: a motley bunch. Skinny, fat, gangly,
athletic, swift, slow, and the obligatory bad haircut. It was only a friendly
match, so when it was clear that only six members of the Carlisle team were
going to turn up (including a ring-in wearing a West Ham shirt and doing his
best Julian Dicks impersonation) we lent them a few of our players. Nine-a-side
it was, and a right royal hammering ensued.
We lost 6-2 in the end, after a match not worth detailed description! An
Ian error led to the first goal, and it was all downhill from
there. We disintegrated into a team of coaches, as all amateur teams do.
It was a glorious morning, sun shining, and a great excuse to get out amongst
it. The result didn't really matter. (Yeah right. Any of you that know me
know that I get a bit competitive on the field and take losing particularly
After an uninspiring afternoon trudging around Covent Garden elbowing
camera-toting tourists out of the way, I arrived back at the Dawes Road Palace
a Grumpy Young Man. I opened up a big bottle of harsh on my unsuspecting
flatmates. Poor bastards. My family are conditioned to tolerating me after
a loss. These buggers just didn't know what had hit them. Where's Ian, and
what have you done with him??
In the early evening Simon and I went for a kick of the footy. After a while
a bloke walked towards us and said "Mind if I join you for a kick?"
"G'day mate!" I said, "Where are you from?" Steve was from Perth, and he
and I had one thing in common - we both hate the Weagles, aka the most boring
team on the planet.
I had arranged to meet up with Rob, a friend of a friend, tonight. He's a
Charlton supporter, and he and his mates were going out to celebrate the
Addicks winning the first division championship. I rang him to find out where
to meet him, but only got his voicemail. Later I received a voicemail message
from Rob that went something like this:
Yeah hi mate must have
stifled burp just missed your call...unclear...totally arseholed...
bloke screaming...we're at...where are we at? Look get off at London Bridge...
mate we're all totally arseholed...and...more loud screaming...see you
I rang him back and only got voicemail, so I figured I'd just spend the night
in. As if a Grumpy Young Man would want to spend the evening with a bunch of
pissed-as-newts Charlton supporters anyway!